first light

I talk a lot about darkness because I’ve learned to treat it as an old friend of mine.

But don’t be mistaken-

There’s a lot of light in my life, too.

Light in people and faces, in places and spaces, light that comes suddenly and inundates my entire world in a second’s time. Light that comes in the shape of clouds, of $20 dollar bills found on a deserted staircase, light that comes twinkling down all around me filtered through big tall leaves. Light. So much light. The sun rises over my bedroom window and I lay beneath the covers and notice the golden streams of light dancing- first across my white comforter and then over my face, settling down to make home in my eyes. Sparkling light, new and bright. Virginal light, the kind that carries no shadows or hint of darkness. Because if there’s one thing I learned walking through it, is that darkness ends. Always. And then, there’s all the light. And aren’t you glad you stuck around to see it? You held on for all this light. Of course you can see it down to its atoms. It’s only natural.

Just because I have befriended darkness doesn’t mean I can no longer speak of the light. The light in his eyes when he tells me he loves me. And means it. And then the light in her eyes when she tells me I’m still her favorite person. We lost so much together when he passed, it only makes sense we rebuild our lives together. Brick by brick our love strengthening our breath, giving wind to our feet. Drenched in the light streaming through the big windows of the bar nearby, grabbing drinks and spilling quiet, reluctant tears as we affirm to each other in our silence that we’re doing alright.

Light.

I live in it. I just dabble in darkness sometimes. Perhaps just so as not to lose the habit. We’ve come such a long way, after all. Maybe that’s the biggest gift I’ve gotten out of all the loss: to be able to co-exist in both darkness and light and find beauty in it all.